[1]Harry the Eighth.
[1]Harry the Eighth.
[2]This man was a justice of the peace. Whilst his clerk was writing a mittimus to send a girl to Bridewell, for retailing her ware full measure for a shilling a turn, he had his own weights broken in pieces by the jury, and thrown into the street, for being short above two ounces in the pound.
[2]This man was a justice of the peace. Whilst his clerk was writing a mittimus to send a girl to Bridewell, for retailing her ware full measure for a shilling a turn, he had his own weights broken in pieces by the jury, and thrown into the street, for being short above two ounces in the pound.
[3]Yorkshire word for horses.
[3]Yorkshire word for horses.
[4]Don Quichote.
[4]Don Quichote.
[5]They made thunder formerly at the play-houses in a great mustard-bowl.
[5]They made thunder formerly at the play-houses in a great mustard-bowl.
[6]The reader, perhaps, may think I make Iris abuse the goddess of wisdom too much in the Billingsgate style; but if he will peruse Homer, he will find Iris ten times more abusive in Greek, than I could make her in English. Homer, 1. S. lin. 423; Αννοτάτη κύον ἀδδεες [Annotatei kuon addees]. This part of Iris's abuse is not in commission from Jove, it naturally arises from the petulant malignity of the messenger. Gentle reader, if you would avoid endless quarrels, never employ an ill-natured female to deliver an angry message to one of her own sex; for it must be a very angry message indeed that a woman cannot make an addition to.
[6]The reader, perhaps, may think I make Iris abuse the goddess of wisdom too much in the Billingsgate style; but if he will peruse Homer, he will find Iris ten times more abusive in Greek, than I could make her in English. Homer, 1. S. lin. 423; Αννοτάτη κύον ἀδδεες [Annotatei kuon addees]. This part of Iris's abuse is not in commission from Jove, it naturally arises from the petulant malignity of the messenger. Gentle reader, if you would avoid endless quarrels, never employ an ill-natured female to deliver an angry message to one of her own sex; for it must be a very angry message indeed that a woman cannot make an addition to.
[7]They make lightning at the play-house with rosin pounded very small, and thrown through the flame of a candle.
[7]They make lightning at the play-house with rosin pounded very small, and thrown through the flame of a candle.
This book begins with Atreus' sonPersuading all his Greeks to run,Let's haste, says he, and save our lives,And like good husbands kiss our wives;For, if we stay, be sure Old NickWill play us some damn'd slipp'ry trick;Nor hope the sooty-fac'd old boyWill e'er desert his fav'rite Troy.At this fine speech Tydides sworeWorse than he'd ever done before,And spoke his mind, because he reckon'dOld Chatterbags would be his second:Here he was right: th' old cock begun,And d—d his eyes if he would run.They then consult to know which wayThey can with any safety stay.Old Square-toes in the humour still isTo try and reconcile Achilles;Then adds, I think it not amiss isTo send both Ajax and Ulysses.As he propos'd, they both are sent,And with them goody Phœnix went.Now, though it plain appears, that eachMade in his turn a pretty speech,And did with as much cunning pleadAs ******, when he's double-fee'd,Achilles turn'd it all to farce,And clapp'd his hand upon his a—e.
Whilst Troy's bold sons with shouts get drunk,The conquer'd Grecians sweat and funk.As when a tailor's boy has gotHis master's goose, almost red hot,The coat it singes; straight the fireThe bloody tailor fills with ire:He thumps the lad with all his might,First with his left hand, then his right;The bastard's head, on both sides beat,Can neither stay, nor yet retreat;No chance for his escape appears,Whilst double storms attack his ears:Just so it far'd with Greece; awayThey could not run, nor durst they stay:Poor Agamemnon was distress'dNine times as much as all the rest(You'll say, perhaps, How could he choose?For he'd nine times as much to lose):Howe'er, he calls his man, to send himTo beg the captains would attend him;But charges him before he goes,To bid 'em tread upon their toes.As they were bid, they found their legs,But walk'd as if they trod on eggs.Their near approach the chief espying,Rose up to show 'em he was crying;And ere his doleful tale began,He sobb'd and blubber'd like a man.
As they were bid, they found their legs,But walk'd as if they trod on eggs.Their near approach the chief espying,Rose up to show 'em he was crying.
As they were bid, they found their legs,But walk'd as if they trod on eggs.Their near approach the chief espying,Rose up to show 'em he was crying.
They found him in this piteous case,Tears running down his dirty face:So, when retention's lost, there stealsA salt stream down th' old lady's heels.At length he spoke: Good lack-a-day!In these hard times what can we say?Of Jove we all complain with justice,For in his royal word no trust is:The oracles of wise ApolloHave likewise been a little hollow;Betwixt 'em both we're finely nick'd,And get most tightly thump'd and kick'd:They promis'd we our fobs should cram,But now you see 'tis all a flam;For Jove, if ever he design'dTo do us good, has chang'd his mind:Although so much concern he feels,He gives us leave to trust our heels.Therefore I vote that ev'ry manTrot home as fast as e'er he can,Nor hope that we shall e'er destroyThis heaven-defended whore's-nest, Troy.He spoke: and each bold Grecian sonLook'd as he'd neither lost nor won,But gaping stood; till DiomedeBegan to speak, and speak he did:You told me, Sir, I late begunTo fight, but rot me if I run!No cause of quarrel Diom. seeks,But we are lost if no man speaks:You bawl'd so loud, though I was near you,You made our raggamuffins hear you;Though then I thought it good to wink on't,Seal up my day-lights, but I'll think on't!Great Jove, whose power all power surpasses,Who makes great men of calves and asses:Witnessthe English h—— of p——,And c——s too of later years;Witness the ministers of ——,And privy c——s of late;Witness their treaties with the French;Witness their j——s on the bench;Witness their bishops, priests, and deacons,All pious souls, but very weak ones;Witness their justices of peace,And lawyers too:—but let me ceaseTo chatter more this kind of stuff,I think there's witnesses enough:So to my text, as parsons say;The gods, when they mix'd up thy clay,Put half and half, and let thee passHalf a great booby, half an ass;But I am sure they could not thenDesign thee to command brave men,Because to give thee they thought fitA soul no bigger than a nit!Would any bold commander, pray,Persuade his rogues to run away?And then 'tis ten to one you'll swearThe raggamuffins ran for fear.You and your sneaking crew may run;But take my word, since I've begunTo kick and cuff, you may depend on'tI'll tarry here, and see the end on't.Then don't this fair occasion slip,But get on board thy rotten ship;The rest, I hope, will scorn to mog off,And dim my day-lights if I'll jog off,But stay to fire yon whoring town,And pull their barns and cocklofts downBut if they all should choose to fly.Stenny will stay, and so will I.When once I've enter'd, know I amAs steady as a Rockingham,Whose country's cause will ever beHis object to eternity.Like him I'll knaves and fools oppose,But join both heart and hand with thoseWhose words as well as actions showThey love their king and country too:In such a cause I'll never flinch,And smite me if I stir an inch!With heaven we came when we begun,And hell itself sha'n't make us run.He ended here; and all the crowdBegan to shout so very loud,You'd think each man would burst his liverWith roaring, Diomede for ever!When up the rev'rend figure rear'dOf chatt'ring Nestor's grizzle beard,And spoke; the chiefs all silent sitAs members when they're humm'd by PittThus he begins: My trusty knight,Stick to your text, by G— you're right!I like a man that never starves it,But blames king George, if he deserves it;And yet before you gave it o'erYou might have said a little more:I'll speak, nor do I think the thingWill vex the people or the king.Damnation seize and overtakeThe man that fights for fighting's sake!Such rogues the world would over-run,And break good people's heads for fun;But we, though under feet we're trod,Have justice on our side, by G-d!Therefore to-night let sentries watch us,Lest these confounded rascals catch usAll fast asleep. But first 'tis properTo give these sentinels some supper:Then thou, whose pow'r no man controls,To council call the grave old souls;Before the bus'ness you begin,Give each old buff a dram of gin;'Twill cheer their hearts, with age quite shrunk,But don't you make th' old firelocks drunk;For counsel good no honest fellowCan give, if he is more than mellow:With mod'rate share of meat and drinkThey'll freely chatter what they think,And, like a City congregationWho meet sometimes for the good o' th' nation,Some one, before the close of night,May blunder on a thing that's right.See but yon Trojan fires so near us!If we but sneeze, they overhear us;Whilst then so nigh our boats they keep,The devil fetch me if I'll sleep!To-morrow morn begins the jumble,Where Troy must fall, or Greece must tumble.'Twas thus old Grey-beard spoke; and straightEach sentry posted to his gate:The son[1]the father first obey'd,To show he minded what he said:(For in those times a son would doThings that are out of fashion now):Ascalaphus, the son of Mars,Follow'd this hero hard at a—e,Along with bold Ialmen, whoWas bully Mars's bastard too;Merion and DiepyrusWent next, and then Aphereus;Last came the valiant Lycomede,A hardy whelp of Creon's breed.Twice fifty constables, all knaves,Guarded each bully with their staves;Not one durst sit upon his crupper,But standing mump'd his crust for supper.The chief, both hungry and afraid,Had in his tent a supper made;Though matters wore no pleasing looks,He had not yet discharg'd his cooks;'Tis true, he oft had thought uponA proper reformation,And taken good advice from all butThe very man he should, L—d T——t,Who soon would bring that scheme to pass,And send his drunken cooks to grass.But as there's nought on earth can lookSo dismal as a half-starv'd cook,I hope, for these poor devils' sake,He won't such sneaking methods take,But let each honest red-nos'd cookDie, as he's liv'd, in fire and smoke.All the old cocks were bidden toThis melancholy supper, whoWere capable at this bad boutBy good advice to help them out:They ate a deal, but drank much more,Nor stopp'd till they were half-seas o'er;Nestor, who on this weighty summons(Like speakers in the house of c———s)First penn'd a speech, then got it off,Began to hawk, and spit, and cough,Then spoke: Thou monarch, who, in troth,Exceed'st the kings of Brentford both!Thou powerful chief, bedeck'd with ermine,Who, as thy fancy shall determine,Canst pull down men, and set up vermin,A thing you did some time ago,To show the folks what you could doUpon a pinch; but if againYou do it, Nestor tells you plainAll honest men will so resent it,They'll give you reason to repent it.Though you are honest we are sure,Yet if you give to rascals power,The wrongs you suffer them to doWill all be justly laid on you,And, spite of all that you can say for't,The folks at last will make you pay for't.In matters of this kind you'll find meMuch older than yourself, so mind me;Cares that o'erload my upper shelfBelong to you, and not myself;In weighty matters don't be nice,But always jump at good advice:Though I'm the man of sense to make it,Yet if you've sense enough to take it,The gaping crowd will all agreeThat you're as wise a man as me:To seem exceeding wise, we know,Is half as good as being so.A noodle with a well-tim'd shrugMay any time the world humbug;Then hear me, for I'll utter noughtBut what I think, and always thought:I told you, when you made such gabbling,When Thetis' son and you were squabbling,And like two blackguard scoundrels swore,And curs'd, and damn'd about a whore,That through my spectacles I saw,Like Winchelsea, how things would go;I saw the bully would resent it,And told you who would first repent it;And to your cost you find out nowI told you nought but what was true.But as that matter's done and o'er,And can't be help'd, I'll say no more:The man's a puppy that beginsTo kick his neighbour's broken shins;Only 'tis time you strive to please him:You vex'd him, and you must appease him.The chief then answers to the knight,Flux me, old buff, but you are right!I see as plain as in a glass,You're a wise man and I'm an ass.Too late I find that great strong elfIs half an army of himself;For him, that water-witch his motherDrives us on heaps o'er one another:Fain would I alter what I've done,And strive to please both witch and son:A bribe must fetch him, or he can,I'll take my oath, be no great man;For never yet of all that tribeCould any one resist a bribe.A star and riband, or a pension,Will overset the best intention;Make patriots, like the courtiers, civil,And sell their country to the devil.Therefore, bear witness all around,I hereby offer him ten pound,Seven iron pans to boil his fish in,And twenty chamber-pots to piss in;I'll likewise add a dozen nags,That soon will fill his empty bagsBy winning plates; not one is idle,But ev'ry horse has won his bridle—Nay, some have won a saddle too—But of that sort there's very few.Their pedigrees are all so good,That few their equals are in blood:Out of the twelve, he'll find elevenHave got a ring-bone or a spawn,Which is the surest sign indeedThey're of the very tip-top breed.Besides, I'll give him seven wenches,With fists so hard, they've kept their trenchesFrom being storm'd; if any clownOffer'd to touch, they'd knock him down—'Twould do him good if he would stopAnd see how well they twirl a mop,And spin so fine, they weekly earnTheir sixteen pence in spinning yarn—All these I'll give him out and out,And add the wench we fratch'd about;For his broad back doth so bewitch her,She never yet would let me switch her.Besides all this, when we have takenThe town, with all their eggs and bacon,Of guttling stuff he shall have store,Besides full twenty wenches more;Himself shall be the first who chooses,And what on trial he refusesWe'll take ourselves; then he shall goTo Greece, and be my son-in-law;The farm that I have under care,Orestes and himself shall share:Lastly, three daughters I can boast,All taught to bake, and boil, and roast;Girls, that, besides plain-work and stitching,Can do the business of the kitchen,Can make a pudding or a pie,Or toss you up a lambstone fry;Laodice and Iphigene,Two tighter girls are seldom seen;In the sun's rays there not a beam isSo bright as red-hair'd Chrysothemis;All three are dev'lish sprightly jades,And sore against their will are maids.These in their Sunday's yard-wide stuff,Or, if he pleases, dress'd in buff,I'll let him see to take his choice,Like which he will, he has my voice;And for her portion I'll give moreThan ****** spends upon his whore;The mayor of Garrat shall not beSo great a man by half as he;Because, those mighty gifts to crown,I'll make him bailiff of a town,With six fine villages about it—And keep my word, he need not doubt it.He shall command Enope's people,And Cardamyle without a steeple;Pherag and Pedasus, whose treesProduce so many gooseberries,That I am told they yearly bottleNo less than fifteen hundred pottle,And every pottle in the yearBrings them at least five farthings clear;Hira's good pastures and Epea,And special fields about Anthea,Where all the farmers fill their pursesBy grazing brewers' founder'd horses:—These, standing on the salt-sea beach,Almost as far as Pylos reach,Where bulls, and cows, and oxen roar,And men get drunk, and women whore.—See what I offer to appease him,The devil's in't if this don't please him:By pray'rs the hardest thing relaxes,Nothing stands fix'd, but death and taxes.Nestor, whose silence gave him pain,Starts up to chatter once again:Now, by my soul, 'tis bravely offer'd!Singe my old beard if I'd have proffer'd'Bove half as much! This must convinceThe man that you're a noble prince.And now we've talk'd the matter fully,Let's send and tell this stiff-rump'd bullyYour princely offer; I will warrantTo find men proper for the errand,Men that can strut it, and look big,With store of guts as well as wig.In such-like cases, when we can,We mostly send an alderman;But since none came in our old lighters(Few aldermen, God knows, are fighters),We'll send some people in their places,With aldermanic guts and faces.There's Phœnix, like myself, grown wise,He knows the use of well-plac'd lies;Then Ajax, with a head so big,If we can fit him with a wig,He'll quickly make Achilles stare,And think we've sent my good lord-mayor.But I'm afraid we cannot get himA busby large enough to fit him;Because, when we set out, I know,He look'd all over Middle-Row,But could not find one, up or down,Half deep enough to fit his crown;Which is the cause he's forc'd to wearHis old thrum night-cap all the year.Ulysses too, to mend the job,Must help 'em with his fudging nob:He'll tell more lies for half a crownThan any shopkeeper in town.And then, to close the farce, and makeIt look like bus'ness, let 'em takeTwo beadles with their brass-nobb'd staves,I hate to see things done by halves.When they are gone, let us prepareTo whisper every man a prayer:But do not let the Trojans hear,Lest they should think we pray for fear;Though, if they can but nose it well,They'll guess our pickle by the smell.And now, as usual, his orationReceiv'd a gen'ral approbation:The messengers soon left their places;But first they wash'd their dirty faces,And with an old tin dredging-boxScatter'd some meal upon their locks,Then from a swinging pitcher fullOf ale each took a hearty pull.Now Nestor had a sort of dreadThis ale might get into their head;And they, perhaps, might chatter thenLike drunken common-council men,And tell the king to whom they're sent,They came to pay a compliment,But end their message with a spiceOf drunken hickuping advice;So follow'd of his own accord,And begg'd that not one angry wordMight 'scape their jaws, and that Ulyss,Whose roguish tricks did seldom miss,Would see the greatest care was taken,In this great strait to save their bacon.Away they trudg'd in dreadful plight,Because it was so dark a nightThey could not see a spark of light;But they could hear the billows roarAs they came rumbling on the shore,Which made 'em, whilst their way they keptLug out a prayer or two to Neptune:Neptune, quoth they, we all could wishThat you would help us to a dishOf sprats or smelts, or any fish,Or, what will likeliest do the thing,A little handful of old ling;For that's an article will meltA judge's heart, unless he's gelt.But they might pray, and pray, and pray,Neptune was out of luck that day;Though he had fish'd from morn to night,He had not got a single bite;Nor (should their souls depend on that)Could he assist them with a sprat,Or e'en a shrimp; but as for ling,Th' old fisherman had no such thing:As fast as honest Neptune cur'd it,That whoring rogue, that Jove, secur'd it;For, though a god in ev'ry thing,He was a devil at old ling.But be that matter as it may,By great good luck they grop'd their wayWhen they came near this son of Mars,They saw him sitting on his a—-,Making such ugly faces, thatThey thought him grinning for a hat;But he, good man, upon his rump,Was playing on a brass jew-trump,And 'cause the music pleas'd him much,He gap'd and grinn'd at ev'ry touch;Only Patroclus tarried near him,No mortal else would stay to hear him—Rather than stay to hear him play,The very rats were run away.Just in the middle of his airsThey stole upon him unawares;But, when he peep'd and saw them come,He whipp'd him up from off his bum,And clapp'd the trump into his pocket,So quick, Ulysses thinks he broke it:Patroclus too was on his rump,And like him gave a sudden jump:Achilles seiz'd 'em by their hands,And begg'd to know their best commands:Welcome, old friends, to me yet dear!Pray, what the devil brought you here?If you are come to me for help,From that infernal noisy whelp,And hither trudg'd to ask my aid,You must be hellishly afraid;And that ye are, I need not tell ye,Because, to speak the truth, I smell ye.
Achilles seiz'd them by their hands,And begg'd to know their best commands:Welcome, old friends, to me yet dear!Pray, what the devil brought you here?
Achilles seiz'd them by their hands,And begg'd to know their best commands:Welcome, old friends, to me yet dear!Pray, what the devil brought you here?
At this he pointed to his tent;They made a leg, and in they went,Where down the heroes clapp'd their docks,On woollen cushions stuff'd with flocks;Patroclus, says Achilles, youMust know, of all the Grecian crewI like these cocks; so do not failTo get a pot of mild and staleOf Dolly Pumplenose and tell herTo send the best in all the cellar.Patroclus ran and fetch'd the beer,And then prepar'd for better cheer:With a cow-heel he first began,And fry'd it in an old brass pan;But first he soak'd an offal piece,To suck up all the verdigrise—Had he not ta'en such care, he mightHave poison'd all his friends outright;Because from hist'ry it appearsThe pan had not been us'd some years.Automedon soon fetch'd a candle,Then held the frying-pan by th' handle,Whilst great Achilles fell to workTo cut some steaks of beef and pork:Patroclus, at his friend's desire,Made what we call a roaring fire,At which the steaks were nicely cook'd,Except a few a little smok'd;Though his sharp hungry guests would notBelieve 'em smok'd, but smoking hot.For table-cloth Pelides spreadA sheet he took from off his bed;Then gave each man a cake of bread;And, that the gods might have their due,The fat into the fire he threw:For heathen gods, if you'll inquire,Are pleas'd when all the fat's i' th' fire.Then they fell on their meat and cakes,And gobbled up the heel and steaks.After they'd ta'en some time to drink,To Phœnix Ajax tipp'd the wink;Ulysses soon the signal spies(For he kept watch with both his eyes),Then pours a glass of ale by stealth,And cries, Achilles, Sir, your health,With forty thousand thanks, d'ye see,For this your kind civility:Great Agamemnon, smite my crupper!Could not have cook'd a better supper.But, though you've fill'd our skins so fullOf meat and drink, yet still we're dull,Because the day is hardly pass'd,That saw us all so tightly thrash'd;And now we stand upon the brinkOf ruin, and shall surely sinkIf you don't come, for I'm mistakenIf aught alive can save our bacon,Unless you kindly will assist,And let 'em feel your mutton fist.Peep out, you'll see the Trojans keepUs all coop'd up like Smithfield sheep;They talk of singeing all our tails,And burning both our masts and sails:Great Jove himself, or else the devil,Has been so very kind and civil,As box all day on Hector's side,And lend him strength to trim our hide—That Hector who the world defies,And carries lightning in his eyes;His stomach is so full of ire,That when he rifts he belches fire;We heard him plain his comrades tellI' th' morn he'll ring our passing-bell,And send both men and boats to hell:It gave me such a twitch o' th' gripes,To see the rascal deal his stripes,I've hardly got quite clear on't yet,And still I'm in a reeking sweat,Lest he to-morrow morn come out,And once more kick us all about.Is it not very hard we mustLay all our nobs in Trojan dust,Because at present you don't listTo help us with your clumsy fist?But, dear Achilles, now or neverJump up, and smite that Hector's liver,And you'll oblige your friends for ever:But if you let us all be slain,Sink me, if e'er we fight again!No steps, my friend, that you can treadWill help us when we're knock'd o' th' head;Therefore in time observe, I pray,What your old daddy us'd to say:My son, said he, and strok'd thy locks,Thou'rt strong enough to fell an ox;But, for all that, keep clear of brabbling,Or else you'll get a name for squabbling,And then, depend, high words and high blowsWill bring you nought but kicks and dry blows;But quiet dealings and good natureWill please folks so, that ev'ry creatureWill say, in spite of your thick jowl,'Tis a good-natur'd honest soul.But, in your wrath, if you perhapsShould lend a man a slap o' th' chaps,Your mutton fist will bruise his jaw(Remember that I told you so),For which, if you don't run away,You'll have the surgeon's bill to pay.If any blust'ring son of MarsAffront you, bid him kiss your a—-!Whether he tarries then or goes off,Don't strike him, lest you knock his nose off.Pray do not, like a graceless knave,Despise th' advice your daddy gave;But, if you'll grant Atrides' prayer,He'll give you—stop, and you shall hearWhat a great gainer you'll be by't;I have it down in black and white:Before the elders seated round,He nobly offers you ten pound,Seven iron pans to boil your fish in,And twenty chamber-pots to piss in;He'll likewise add a dozen nags,That soon will fill your empty bags,By winning plates; they ha'n't been idle,But ev'ry nag has won his bridle,Nay, some have won a saddle too,But of that sort there's very few;Their pedigrees are all so good,That few their equals are in blood;Out of the twelve you'll find elevenHave got a ring-bone or a spavin,Which is the surest sign indeedThey're of the very tip-top breed:For sev'ral of 'em you may traceFrom that fam'd horse that won the race.For great Darius, when the stateDecreed a kingdom for a plate;And, if you sell them, Pond for youShall swear the pedigree is true.Besides all this, he'll throw you in,Of hard-bumm'd wenches that can spin,The very lucky number seven,Odd numbers always beat the even;Their spinning will good money earn,And you'll grow rich by selling yarn—All these he'll give you out and out,And add the wench you fratch'd about,And swears you someway so bewitch her,She never yet would let him switch her.Besides all this, when we have takenThe town, with all their eggs and bacon,Of belly-timber you'll have plenty,And a round dozen, if not twenty,Plump girls; and, if on leap and trial(Which they must take without denial)You like 'em not, you need not choose 'em,We'll snap 'em up, though you refuse 'em;Then try again, if that will ease you,Till you can find a score to please you:And, when this job of jobs is done,Which must, I think, be special fun,He'll take you home and call you son:Of all his lands the farm that best isHe'll split 'twixt you and bold Orestes.Lastly, three daughters he can boast,All taught to bake, and boil, and roast;Useful i' th' parlour, hall, or kitchen,And notable fine girls at stitching—Your shirts I mean, the wrists or neck,Whether your linen's plain or check,Which, my good friend, will be to youOf use, and profitable too;Because you need not then go swappingYour smuggled tea for shirts in Wapping,Where ware that's sound cannot be gotten,And all their stitching-tackle rotten.Laodice and IphigeneAre two of these fine girls I mean;In the sun's rays there not a beam isSo bright as red-hair'd Chrysothemis;All three are sprightly buxom jades,And, what's a rarity, they're maids!These in their Sunday's yard-wide stuff,Or, if you like 'em best, in buff,He'll let you see, to take your choice,Take which you will you have his voice;And, for her portion, you'll have moreThan ****** spent upon his whore:Further, these mighty gifts to crown,He'll make you bailiff of a town,Where, on a grand election year;If you are careful, you may clearTen pounds, as sure as you were born,Or twenty, for a false return:But let this caution be your guide,That you return the strongest side,Else you may chance to find your pateO' th' wrong side of an iron grate.Likewise six villages do lieWithin this borough's liberty,Of which, if I may gain belief.You shall be constable in chief;Both Pherœ and Enope tooMust then pull off their caps to you,And you, when you think 't worth the while,May kiss the girls of Cardamyle;With Pedasus, whose stock of treesBear an estate in gooseberries.These, join'd with Hira and Epea,And special fields about Anthea,All stretch along the salt-sea beach,And very near to Pylos reach;Where bulls, and cows, and oxen roar,And men and women drink and whore,And where they still continue whoring,In spite of squinting Whitfield's roaring,Although he deals to ev'ry stationSuch thumping doses of damnation,You'd swear he had a patent got(As folks have done for pills and shot)That none but Wesley, he, and Grimstone[2],May deal in burning pitch and brimstone.See what he offers to appease you!The devil's in't, if he don't please you:By prayers the hardest thing relaxes,Nothing stands fix'd, but death and taxes.You'll see, Achilles, what he proffers,And troth I thought 'em handsome offers;But if you turn a flat deaf earTo our petition, folks will swearYour liver is grown white with whoring,And now you're good for nought but roaring;From whence they fairly must conjectureYou dare not face that rascal Hector,Who, I am hopeful, kicks us now,Only to be re-kick'd by you.Achilles answers: Surely this isA rare long speech, my friend Ulysses!And in return I'll give you for'tA speech that, be it long or short,Shall speak my mind—for may I sink,If I'll say aught but what I think!Though, if your friends expect to seeA single grain of help from me,Tell 'em, as sure as there you sit,They're most abominably bit.Who one thing speaks and thinks another,Though he were born of my own mother,Should I not use him right, I ask all,To d—-n him for a scoundrel rascal?And therefore all the Greeks you'll findWill hardly make me change my mind.On their account when Troy I spank'd,You see how finely I got thank'd,Your scoundrel chief must get a-stride onThe only tit I had ride on,But on a bible book I've sworeNever to do so any more;Ev'ry poor heartless rogue you'll stand by,Rather than Monckton, Hawke, and Granby;For, when a brave man tumbles down,You'll help a scoundrel up as soon.Pray what the devil have I gotFor all the rogues I've sent to rot?Just like that careful bird the tit,Who never tastes a single bit,But still keeps picking worms and scrapingTill ev'ry tit gives over gaping;Such pains for thankless Greece I've taken.And sav'd their measly pocky bacon;Kept all their loving spouses' placketsFrom being trimm'd by Trojan jackets;Watch'd all the night in heavy buff,And work'd all day at kick and cuff;Twelve farmers' huts and barns I plunder'd,And should, if there had been a hundred:That thick-skull'd whelp, your gen'ral Blunder,Came in of course for all the plunder,Began to fill his paunch the first,And guttled cheese-cakes till he burst:Two dozen down his throat he switches,Then ramm'd two dozen in his breeches.Besides, he ev'ry kettle got,Except one lousy porridge-pot.And one fat wench so rarely fed,Her cheeks as well as hair were red.My men that fought, and won the stake,Like those that did th' Havannah take,Receiv'd from this great chief of Greece'Bout twelve or fifteen pence apiece;He likewise gave, with much ado,A little to the captains too,But not so much, by far, as willPay half their sneaking taylors' bill;The rest, like A****, he sentTo his own hoard; yet, not content,His idle hours he could not passWithout my carrot-pated lass.Let him the buxom dame enjoy;But what's our quarrel then with Troy[3]?You all were sensible beforeWe're only fighting for a whore:Don't wonder then, if for a harlotYou see me drub that thieving varlet.Must Atreus' sons all wenches seize,And trim 'em when and where they please,Whilst we, who all their prizes won,Must thank 'em for a butter'd bun?Mean sneaking scrubs may go on still,But seal my day-lights if I will!A heart that's made of standard bullionWill love his wench although a scullion;Nay, though he takes a rag-mop squeezer,He ought to do his best to please her.I lik'd the girl, and, on my life,Us'd her as though she'd been my wife;And, may I never drub the French,If I'd have parted with the wench,But Pallas came down stairs, you know,And order'd me to let her go!But, once deceiv'd, I'll tell you plain.I'll never trust a king again:He's wrong'd me in the dearest part,And from my soul L—-d d—-n his heart!This is my mind; to mend the jobLet him consult your busy nob;Where you can't lend a helping hand,The devil would be at a stand.But why the pox should he want me,When I such mighty works can see,With wondrous ramparts and a trench?Surely his engineers were French!The Greeks could never raise such works,They'd baffle a whole host of Turks;And yet he fears, as I conjecture,They cannot keep out swagg'ring Hector:When I along with Ajax steer'd,Then no such bullying work appear'd;These fighting Trojans kept their gates up,And very seldom popp'd their pates upAbove their wall, but then were fainTo pop 'em quickly down again.The mighty Hector ventur'd onceWithout the gates, but sav'd his sconceBy running back into the town,Or, by my soul, I'd crack'd his crown!And had I still look'd sharp about,He ne'er again had ventur'd out.Now we no more shall think of fighting,But soon as th' morning brings some light in,If we can catch a leading gale,You'll spy my lighters under sail,And the third day, by three o'clock,Don't fear to reach to Puddle Dock,Where there's no doubt but we shall findThe heaps of goods I left behind,Some rusty kettles, pots, and pans,And half a dozen copper cans.To these I'll add what I got here,Earn'd by my labour plaguy dear,With all my square-stern'd thumping jades,By people here call'd country maids.I lik'd but one above them all,And that your scoundrel gen'ral stole:Then tell him thus, and do not fear yeTo speak that all the Greeks may hear ye,Let them all hear I call their chiefA lousy, pilf'ring, blackguard thief!Had he but his deserts, I knowHe would have swung five years ago,And yet I've hopes to see him stillRide in a cart—up Holborn-Hill;For, by my soul, the rascal's knav'ryDesigns you wooden shoes and slav'ry.Keep you but honest, and I'm sureThe scoundrel dog will keep you poor;Although the rascal dare as wellFetch my lord B—-th's black soul from hell,As venture into any placeWhere I may see his ugly face—For, if he does, by G-d, I'll fell him!And that, Ulysses, you may tell him;And add, I neither will collogueNor fight along with such a rogue.Let the poor dog, since Jove deprives himOf sense, run where the devil drives him:A man may be bamboozled once,As I was, by a thick-skull'd dunce;But if again I let it pass,Though he's the rogue, yet I'm the ass;From sneaking rascals full of shifts,Tell him Achilles scorns all gifts;Nay, though he promis'd me the wholeHis rogu'ry has from others stole,I'd rather stand to see him undoneThan have the running cash of London,Whose money, judg'd by what they spend,Can surely never have an end;Yet could the sneaking scoundrel ask allThat running cash for me, the rascalShall ne'er have my assistance, d—n me!Nor any chance again to flam me,Nor will I ever kiss his daughter,Though H*** herself had taught herThe very motions maids at courtAll know will make the finest sport—Nay, was she all in di'monds dress'd,And had of things the very best,Yet, rather than with him agree,The second-best shall serve for me;Sooner than he my pate shall flam,I'll marry with the devil's dam,For I'm resolv'd to sow no seedOn such bad ground; I hate the breed!When I go home, if God spare life,I'll get my dad to choose a wife;My back and parts, I'm pretty certain,Will recommend me to a fortune;There's scarce a girl of ThessalyBut will be glad to jump at me.With one of these I'll join my hand,And stay at home and plow my land,On Sundays a good dinner cook,Then sit and read a godly book—The book where Solomon the wiseA girl from ev'ry nation tries,And found, when all his strength was past.It was but vanity at last.Here I can likewise mend my writing,And leave to fools the trade of fighting.Pray, of what use are all our cattle,If once we're knock'd o' th' head in battle?Not the best purl that e'er was drank,Nor all the money in the Bank,Not Child's great chest, with all that's in it,Will save your life a single minute.We may recover money lost,Or nags when stole, on paying cost;But if your breath you once let slip,The devil gets you on the hip;And he was never known to letA sinner once escape his net,Except a fiddler[4]of the town,That took a hurdigurdy down,And made such cursed noise below,Satan was glad to let him go;Which gave old Handel[5]room to crack,The devil soon would send him back:But as we've never seen him yet,'Tis ten to one th' old fellow's bit.Long since a gipsy told my fortune,That I should be demolish'd certain:If I stay here, my life 'twill curtail,But then my fame will be immortal;Ballads in print shall spread my fame,And ballad-singers roar my name:If I go home I change my fate,And spin out life a longer date,Like country 'squires lie warm and snug.And snore a hundred years incog.This course, my friends, will I pursue,And so, if you are wise, will you.Seek your own homes without delay,Nor longer here for dry blows stay,Where nothing can be got but rapsUpon your pates, or slaps o' th' chaps;For Jove, I'll speak it to his face,Defends this whoring Trojan race,Heartens them on our boats to plunder,But scares our shabby rogues with thunder.And now I've told you all my mind,Pray let your loggerheads be join'dIn consultation how to 'scapeYour present most unlucky scrape.This string has snapp'd, but you, I know,Have always two strings to your bow,And yet you'll find, I don't dispute,Some auger-hole to wriggle out:This is the answer you may carry;So march! but let old Phœnix tarry;I think that he should have a tombTo lay his grizzle beard at home,Although the old curmudgeon mayJust as he pleases, go or stay.This speech of speeches ending here,Like three stuck pigs it made 'em stare;When Phœnix rose, but first he cried,Then wip'd his nose, before he triedA few persuasive words to speak;But his old pipe was grown so weak,He did not seem to talk, but squeak:O great Achilles! wilt thou fly,And leave the Greeks like rats to die?If you in anger trudge away,How shall your old schoolmaster stay?When thy good daddy Peleus sentThee first to join the regiment,And bid thee stay, upon conditionI bought the very first commission(For, to our scandal be it told,Commissions are both bought and sold),He sent me with thee, that I mightTeach thee to bully, whore, and fight—Three cardinal virtues, which a braveAnd jolly captain ought to have;Which, added to a little drinking,Will always keep his nob from thinking;For soldiers, if they thought aright,Would sooner far be d—d than fightFor rogues, who, when they've lost a leg,Will hardly give them leave to beg.But yet I always did pursueYour father's plan in teaching you,And flux me if I leave you now!Not if the gods would lend their millTo grind me young, or Doctor HillWould promise to keep off old ageWith the grand tincture of red sage.Then would you hear me, thrice a week,Make chambermaids by dozens squeak.My dad so old, he scarce could move,Yet, with a pox, must fall in love;My mam begg'd hard that I'd outwit him:I did, and got the girl—so bit him.But the old Heathen swore and curs'd,As if his very gall would burst;So far his passion crack'd his brain,He pray'd I ne'er might stand again;And sure I am, as you are there,The devil help'd his wicked prayer.I was damn'd vex'd, a man may swear,To find myself so very queer,That though I did on jellies sup,I ne'er could make affairs look up,And thought, so prone are we to evil,To send th' old rascal to the devil;But some kind goblin stay'd that thought,So all my anger came to nought.Then I would fly, aye, that I would,Let all my friends do what they could:Nine suns they watch'd me night and dayOn the tenth eve I ran awayWith a blind tinker, whose good metalHad mended many a crazy kettle,But grown less able now to trudge it,I undertook to lug the budget;And thus with eighteen-pence a-piece,We took our travels through all Greece.Many a merry day we pass'd,And weather'd many a bitter blast,And many a merry night, when tipsy,We pigg'd in straw with each a gipsy:At last, without a single sous,We reach'd your daddy's old farm-house,Who did to stay with him persuade me,And dry-nurse to his son he made me;Gave me a sal'ry for my keeping,And patch'd the calf-crib up to sleep in.Finding I had a taste to rule,He made me master of a school,To teach, as I could do it well,The farmers' chub-fac'd boys to spell.And 'faith your dad I amply paidBy making you so fine a blade—Though you cut such a puff, d'ye see,You'd been a noodle but for me.That I my time could ne'er employOn a more hopeful loving boyIs true, and nought but truth I'll say;It made me chuckle ev'ry dayTo hear the little varlet mutter,Unless I cut his bread and butter;Often upon my knee he'd doze,And puke his milk upon my clothes,Which I rubb'd off as soon as done,As if the lad had been my son:I thought, or may the dry pox rot me!The devil had at last forgot me,And, spite of my old father's curse,I was thy dad, and not thy nurse:You'll hardly think the joy I hadIn rearing such a hopeful lad.Come, don't be cross, but dry our tears,A valiant heart no malice bears;When man repents and turns from evils,He moves all hearts except the devil's;Therefore, if you don't take our part,You've got the devil of a heart.The wicked Jews themselves once sentSuch prayers as made their god repent—Prayers made him do it, though he knewThey were a cursed wicked crew,And would, before the week was spent,Make him on t'other side repent:Our prayers are slow because they're lame,For which the parsons are to blame,Who might have taught us to repeatPrayers with much better legs and feet,Howe'er they make a shift to followInjustice with a whoop and hollow.Although this fiery headlong madam,Injustice, 'mongst the sons of AdamMakes cursed work, yet prayers can healThe mischiefs that she makes them feel:And he that won't their voices hear,Jove often makes him pay full dear;For then at private man or kingHe lets Injustice take her swing,And, that no mortal may resist her,Lends her a lawyer to assist her.Then cease, my boy, to curse and swear,And hear our lamentable prayer:Had not the gen'ral made submission,May I be sous'd to all perdition,If I'd have spoke a single sentence.In hopes to bring thee to repentance!For, had not Fortune, ever fickle,Now left him in a stinking pickle,Not twenty guineas, I assure you,Should make me plead against your fury;But since he offers you so fairly,And decks his presents out so rarely,And since these curious things, d'ye see,Are sent by no less man than me,I would not have you shun the offer,You'll ne'er refuse a better proffer;And, lest you fail to nick the joint,I'll just relate a case in point:Upon a steep and rocky mountainStands Calydon, beside a fountain;Th' Æolians strove to take the rock,And awarded many a bitter knockFrom the Curetians; thus they hourlyKept basting one another purely:'Twas Cynthia's doing all: but whetherShe set 'em by the ears togetherFor cheating her of some good suppers,Or bumping one another's cruppers,Like Sodom's sons, I can't, I vow,Explain that matter clearly now;But something set her so agig,She sent a monstrous great he-pig,That swallow'd ev'ry thing he foundEither above or under ground,Tore their potatoes up by th' roots,And all their apple-trees to boots,And made no bones of sheep or geese,But swallow'd feathers, horns, and fleece—This pig, no matter where 'twas bred,Dick Meleager knock'd o' th' head;Then all the bumpkins round came in,And box'd like devils for the skin,Brought out their pokers, spits, and ladles,To gain the skin to make 'em saddles.The bold Curetes, who had fullyResolv'd to baste this kill-pig bully,Got rarely 'nointed; then he sworeA bloody oath he'd fight no more,But go and lead a quiet lifeWith dame Alcyone his wife.Idas, her father, though a civilAnd well-bred man, would box the devil;Marpasa was her mother's name,A handsome jolly country dame.Now that trim singing rogue Apollo,This Idas' handsome wife did follow,And one dark foggy night, when allThe family were out of call,Jumbled her up against a wall.Finding no help was nigh her, sheFor that time took it patiently:But, because Idas did not chooseTo be a quiet Cheapside spouse,And let him round his freehold rangeTo do his bus'ness whilst at 'ChangeI mean the business of his wife—He plagu'd poor Idas all his life.Very fine principles, you'll say,Their godships had that time o' day;For, bad as we are all, 'tis true,They're thought vile rogues that do so now.But Alethea, though his mother,Because he chanc'd to kill her brother,With cursing such a noise did keep,He could not get a wink of sleep;Legions of fiends her curses drew,She curs'd till all the ground look'd blue,And set up such a shrill-ton'd yell,They plainly heard her voice in hell;Her curses gave him such a diz'nessIt made him quite neglect his bus'ness,And spend his mornings, noons, and nights,At Mother Welch's, or at White's.Etolia, woefully oppress'd,And to the last degree distress'dBy foes all round, entreats his aid,And sent a swingeing long paradeOf aldermanic wigs and gowns,Collected from the neighb'ring towns;And, for a wonder, he that ledThis sweeping train had got a head:They begg'd he'd come, with piteous tones,And break their adversaries' bones,And would he prove a good peace-maker,They'd freely give him fifty acreOf as brave land as ever boreA pile of grass, or crow flew o'er:But in these times they durst not mentionSo vile an epithet as pension.His father came and made a bow,And all his sisters curtsy'd too:The cursing dame before him stood;But, as for her, he damn'd her blood,As any man of spirit would:His wife came last, and rubb'd her eye,Then tun'd her pipe, and join'd the cry;Told him, if he won't come away,The devil soon must be to pay—So fast, says she, the ruin spreads,There soon must be a smash of heads;For when the men's hard heads are smack'd,The maiden-heads will soon be crack'd,And all the virgins in the townExpect they shall be ravish'd soon:If therefore you'll this time preserve 'em,At any time they'll let you serve 'em,And promise that they will not squeak,Though you should ravish ten a-week:But they would have you take great care,You do not touch a single hairOf Polly W-dc-k, lest some quack,With brazen face and conscience black,Should swear that he can tell by th' mark,Whether you kiss'd her in the dark,Or by broad day-light, and if sheKick'd hard, or took it patiently.At this he grasp'd his stick, and soonBroke all their bones, and sav'd the town.But 'cause his coming was so tardy,These same Etolians grew fool-hardy;And though he say'd both priest and church,They left their saviour in the lurch;Just as the bishops left their maker,And shunn'd the passage through Long Acre,'Tis dang'rous, cries each wary chap,To venture through the Devil's Gap[6],The houses on both sides are allSo old, that, like the Duke, they'll fall,And crush, perhaps, each reverend sotThat runs where nothing's to be got;And Satan, always on the watchThe sons of any church to catch,Dines rarely when his cook can dish upA rev'rend brawny well-fed bishop.But to return: From this great straitPray help us ere it be too late;Your arm will stand us in no steadAfter we all are knock'd o' th' head;Assist us, therefore, ere we faint,And you shall be a popish saint.I ask'd the Pope if he knew whereTo find a day from saintship clear?He answer'd No, but he would makeSome shift or other for your sake;Not doubting but amongst the crewTo find a bigger rogue than you—If so, says he, 'twill be no sinTo kick him out, and put you in.Achilles then returns this answer:My ever-honour'd nurse and grandsire,You know I'm us'd to make a shift,And therefore want no bribe or gift:If Jove and I are cater-cozens,The Greeks may hang themselves by dozens!If he thinks fit, I here will lagAs long as I a toe can wag,Or go wherever he shall lug me,But your old pate shall ne'er humbug me;Therefore no more attempt to bubbleYour loving friend, and give him trouble,For such a rogue as that Atrides,A scoundrel dog, whose greatest pride isTo cheat and pilfer all he can,And plunder every honest man!I little thought, old friend, not I,You could for such a rascal cry;Whether small beer or ale we drink,My friend like me should always think;In this 'tis honest to collogueTo hate a dirty sneaking rogue;The very fellow that would doMischief to me, would hamstring you,Because, when Peleus dies, he knowsHalf of my farm and cattle goesTo you by promise.—So, Ulysses,Go tell your spitfire gen'ral this isMy firm resolve, at break of dayEither to stay or go away.—Then orders, as these words he said,A pan of coals for Phœnix' bed.Now, you must know, this fine orationPut Ajax in a bitter passion;Blast my old boots, says he, but this isA mighty pretty job, Ulysses!We're sent by our wise-looking owls,Only to make us April fools:See what we've got for all our pain!Rot me if e'er I'll cringe again!No speech that we can make will stir him,Were we to stay till doomsday for him:Therefore 'tis proper we should go,Whether they like his words or no,And tell our friends the fine pallabberThat we just now have heard him jabber—I'm sure that they, this foggy morn,Are gaping hard for our return;You see he is on mischief bent—Such harden'd sinners ne'er repent:His cronies and old secret-keepersHe minds no more than chimney-sweepers;Yet, smite my eyes! if any otherShould in a squabble lose a brother,All the amends that's in folks' powerIs made, and people, ask no more!If an own father lose his son,As very oft, God knows, is done,Should the damn'd rogue who did the deedChance to be rich enough to bleedA good round sum, and comes to shake it,The people make the father take it.The hardest hearts but thine relent,And money makes a judge repent;But Jove has given thee a heartMade of a plank of Pharaoh's cart:One wench was stole, but what of that?He offers seven full as fat,And fatter too, for all these wenchesHave broader buttocks by some inches,With flesh so firm, without a hum,I'd undertake upon the bumOf any of those girls (d'ye see?)To beat a march, or crack a flea.Come then, and be of better temper,And don't be cross and sulky semper,Else we shall say you give a bitOf roast, and baste us with the spit;Which sure must vex us to the heart,Because we always take your part—So much, that when poor scoundrels railAt your cross phiz, we seldom failEither to knock the rascals down,Or with a broomstick crack their crown—A rare short method I found outTo finish any long dispute.Achilles thus: My bully rock,Of all the Greeks the boldest cock,In a bad cause you beat by farPitt's speeches for a German war:But it won't do, a man's that's wiseWill never be humbugg'd by lies.Such lies as from his tongue were sentTo hum the British P————-.Besides, there's nought can vex me worseThan to refuse my good old nurse:But when that fellow's name I hear,Spite of my guts my tongue will swear,So much the rascal does provoke me,My passion rises fit to choak me,And would, but that we Grecians areSuch sons of freedom that we dare,Like English mob, do any thing,Blaspheme our God, or d—n our king.The usage I have had much worse isThan Oxford scholars use hack-horses:Cheated, because he chose to rob me,And now sends you, my friends, to bob me.But flux my hide if you shall do it!I knew the dog would live to rue it!Then tell the whelp, and tell him plain,I'll never lift my hand againTill Hector and his roaring crewHave thump'd your sides all black and blue;When all your boats in flames are crackling,I'll stir to save my own old tackling;And whilst with joy the Trojan chuckles,Just then I'll make him feel my knuckles.At this he put the mug about,And begg'd they'd see the liquor out.To keep their souls from growing dullEach took a pretty hearty pull;Then swash'd the leavings of that roundFor a libation on the ground—A method I have heard folks sayOur chairmen use to this good day.This done, they made a bow, and wentFull speed to find the gen'ral's tent.In the mean time a strapping jade,Achilles call'd his chamber-maid,Spread on the ground for this old sinnerSome sheep-skins borrow'd from a skinner,Of blankets then she brought a pairFull of great holes, and quite thread-bare,But yet they were, though bitter bad,The very best Achilles had;Howe'er, to keep th' old Grecian snug,From her own bed she spar'd a rug,With bugs, and grease, and sweat so full,It kept th' old soul as warm as wool;For he, in less than half an hour,Began to crack, and snort, and snore,So loud, I'll take my oath the soundWas heard at least a furlong round.Achilles, maugre all his roaring,Kept the best room himself to snore in,Where stripping off his clothes with speed heWhipp'd into bed to Diomede,A Yorkshire girl, whose awkward motionSo pleas'd the whelp, that I've a notionHe better lik'd to sleep with herThan the fat jade they squabbled for.Patroclus' bed was warm'd the last,And he his nights in pleasure pass'dBy a fair maiden's side call'd Iphis,Where no such jars as with a wife is:This girl was well content to share it,And took it just as he could spare it;For early in the morn she neverCry'd, Lord! my dear, you'll sleep for ever!Now Ajax and Ulysses putThe best leg forward to the hut,Where the old soakers still kept drinkingTo drown all cares care—comes by thinking:Each man with glass in hand they found,Standing to drink one bumper round;One bumper more to crown the rest,In English call'd the very best;But, though the meaning is the same,In Greek it bears another name;I think my master, Doctor Busby,Us'd to pronounce it polioflusby.Great Agamemnon spy'd 'em coming,And bid 'em speak, and not stand humming,On this sly Ithacus replies,Smite all my limbs, and blast my eyes,If such a fellow e'er was seenAs your queer fellow where we've been!The more we pray, the more he swears,And grins to see us hang our ears.Because you said we should not wantHis aid, he vow'd he would not grantTo such a noisy brangling whelpAs you, a single grain of help;And swore, unless it was your brother,On earth there was not such anotherD—-d blackguard scoundrel left alive—The rest were hang'd in forty-five:But what need he for help to call,Whose clapper can outscold them all?For when his tongue has once begun,He'll make a Thames-street fish-wife run.King Solomon himself doth sayA scolding woman any dayCan drive an enemy away:Now he that can in any weatherOutscold a dozen brims together,Can surely make that Trojan whelp,That Hector, run without my help;Therefore i' th' morn when up you get,Depend you'll see my mainsail set,And if you've any prudence, youWill hoist your lighters mainsail too;For Jove, I speak it to his face,Defends this whoring Trojan race:He'll save these rascals from a scouring,Because they, like himself, love whoring.These were his words, what more appear'dBoth Ajax and the beadles heard;But Phœnix in his tent he keeps,Where for this night th' old fellow sleeps,Though in the morn, he told us so,He'll give him leave to stay or go:Then added, Though you should escapeWithout his help from this d——d scrape,And save your hide from being bang'd,He hopes to live to see you hang'd.Ulysses ceas'd: the congregationSeem'd in a dreadful consternation;Their eyes show'd nothing but the whites,Like Wesley and his Culamites;A look of horror spread all o'er 'em,As if they saw hell-fire before 'em,And Satan with a sable packOf long-tail'd devils at their back.Ready with pitchforks to beginTo push them all by dozens in;Whenup the bold Tydides sprung,And in a twinkling found his tongue(No stamm'ring orator would do,A nimble tongue was wanting now):So wild the Greeks began to stare,He saw there was no time to spare;So sprang up nimbly from his seat,And found at once his tongue and feet:Why should we sneak, and beg, and pray,As if we had no other way?This man with pride will crack his guts,To him our prayers are eggs and nuts;And to proud puppies, I am clear,The more you pray, the more they swear.Have you not done, Sir, all you can doAnd pray what more can Ferdinando?Let him, since so much wrath attends him,Sit sulky till the devil mends him;Let him, since it belikes him well,Stay where he is, or go to hell!We have it in our power to showWell do as much as men can do:Therefore, to put us in good plightFor boxing, let us drink all night,Boose it about to drown all sorrow,Boxing will make us cool to-morrow.Soon as the sun the welkin graces,He'll find a sun in all our faces,Painted so red with humming ale,We'll make his fiery face look pale;The god will stand amaz'd to thinkSuch virtue lies in mortal drink;Nor shall he catch us without coats,But looking sharp before the boats:And you, Atrides, in the frontFor once must stand and bear the brunt;For once, I say, we hope you'll do't,It is not oft we put you to't.This speech produc'd a mighty shout,Whilst Diom. push'd the mug about:They drank; then, rolling on the floor,Began like aldermen to snore.